Page 2 of Forced Bratva Hostage

The cut was deep, revealing the pink flesh beneath. This would leave a lasting scar on his face for the rest of his miserable life—a constant reminder of the consequences of his foolishness.

I stepped away from him, and he thudded to the concrete, trembling and wailing in agony. Ideally, his hands would fly to his face even though he'd dare not touch the wound. But he didn't have that luxury, considering both hands were zip-tied behind his back.

“Get him out of my sight before I take off his ear also,” I growled, handing the blade back to Yakov.

Two of my men swiftly bundled him up and tossed him into the trunk of their vehicle.

“You should've just killed him,” Yakov said, his voice thick like gravel and laced with bluntness as he wiped the dagger with a white handkerchief.

Yakov was my right hand man, my confidant, my enforcer. He'd earned my respect through years of unrelenting loyalty to me and the Bratva. The man was one of the selected few that I ever really trusted.

He was tall with an imposing frame and a muscular build that accentuated his rugged features. His signature black outfit always seamlessly blended with the shadows, undetectable unless he wanted to be noticed.

It was a skill he'd honed over the years, coupled with his ability to move with silent footsteps. This made him the perfect candidate for espionage and assassination.

The man was a fucking Russian ninja, and he answered only to me.

I turned to face him as he stood sentinel by my sleek black car, his dark siren eyes watching the other men drive away with Kolya in the trunk.

“He doesn't deserve your mercy,” Yakov hissed, his tone dripping with contempt and disdain.

“He mostly doesn't,” I replied, toiling with my cufflinks. “But you see, there are different ways to punish a man than taking his life.” I jerked my head to face Yakov. “For instance, taking away something he loves.”

Yakov's expression turned questioning, his brows creasing ever so slightly.

“Kolya's always bragged about how handsome he is, and I know the length he goes just to make sure his face is…well, attractive,” I explained, a soft scoff escaping my lips. “He can't brag about that now, can he?” A corny smirk spread across my face. “His injuries will heal eventually. But that mark on his face…” I let out a menacing chuckle, “it will remain with him foras long as he lives. And every time he looks in the mirror, hewillremember me.”

A hint of amusement danced in his eyes, a sly grin flashing on his features. “You never cease to amaze me, Boss.” He glanced at his watch. “It's almost time for your meeting.” Yakov opened the backseat door, awaiting my entry.

I drew a deep breath, burying a hand in my pocket as I walked over to the car and stepped inside.

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Whistling Lady Gaga's “Poker Face,” I glided through the corridor, snapping my fingers to the rhythm as I grabbed the door handle.

Their quiet chatter filled the room as I walked in, Yakov closing the door behind us.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” my cousin Alexi said, leaning back in his chair, his blue eyes lingering on me.

I adjusted my coat, letting out a sigh as I took my place at the table. “Apologies, I was dealing with a problem.” I sank into my chair.

This was a meeting that Artem, the Tarasov BratvaPakhan,had summoned. It was a little impromptu, but I, for one, thought it was high time we all came together to address this issue of concern.

Artem sat in his high-back leather chair at the center of the mahogany table, his sharp eyes scanning the faces of everyone in the room.

“Pakhan.” I bowed in reverence, acknowledging his presence.

He gave a subtle nod, a fist under his chin.

To his left sat Alexei, my cousin—a man whose reputation for mercilessness within the Bratva preceded him. He was tall with chiseled features, dark hair that complemented his suit tonight and an imposing physique.

To his right sat one-eyed Sergei, a cunning and resourceful hitman who thought violence was the only way to approach any situation. We didn't always agree on that, but in most cases, his methods were efficient and effective.

My older brother, Roman, a one-time temporaryPakhan,was also here, sitting directly opposite Artem, his fingers drumming on the table.

Other high-ranking officials were present, filling the space with the subtle scents of expensive colognes.

“Now that everyone's here, let's get to it,”PakhanArtem began, leaning forward, his voice commanding attention. “Our profits have dwindled drastically these last few months, and we're running low on cash, which, I don't have to mention, is bad for business.” He shifted his gaze across the faces of everyone in the room.

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